And she could say nothing to put herself in a better light and to gain his respect––for that she now desired greatly. She saw him as he was, a big man, a strong man, a man whose respect was to be prized. Beside him she felt herself small and ordinary. That was all right, but she was determined he should not believe her insignificant, shallow, unworthy, mercenary.
While she could not explain matters openly without shaming herself and still lowering herself in his estimation, he being only an acquaintance, yet there were ways of getting at the end. Janet could act adroitly, like most women, when it best served the purpose.
“Do you know, I just learned from friends of yours on Terry Creek that you’re a public benefactor as well as an engineer,” she stated, when they paused on the hillside for a last look at the dam.
“I?” he exclaimed.
His eyes came around and found hers fixed on him.
“I happened to stop at the Johnson ranch. They didn’t say so, but I know they would be pleased to 127 death if you would go to dinner there some day. They have some fine fat chickens, if you like chicken fried or baked, and they hesitate to ask you only because they’re afraid you’ll refuse.”
“Fried chicken is my weakness. Of course I’ll go; at the first spare chance.”
But all the while Steele Weir’s mind was eddying with wonderment. He had colored at mention of the Johnson ranch, as if he had been caught with a hand in a jam pot. And it meant only one thing: she knew of the Bowenville episode. Involuntarily his eyes flashed to her left hand with which she was brushing back the hair under her hat brim. There was no diamond solitaire on its third finger. Surely, something had happened.
“Well, I must be returning home. I just thought I’d give you a tiny hint,” said she. An odd smile rested on her lips as she spoke, for hints may carry multiple suggestions.
“By Jove!” Weir said suddenly.